SO,I'M A NIGHT-OWL. DOES THAT MAKE ME A
FEATHER- HEAD?

Welcome to my Garden.Here is the beauty of my world,in microcosm. It is filled with plants, flowers,animals,birds and persons who are so important to me,that all together, fill me with delight,every day.

MUSICAL TREATS-

"WHERE NO ONE STANDS ALONE "JIMMY SWAGGART: THERE IS ROOM AT THE CROSS FOR YOUDONE BY JIM RECORDS, 2006, THIS IS JIMMY'S NEWEST CD, WITH JIMMY ON THE VOCALS, AND THE PIANO, BACKED UP BY THE SILKY VOICES OF THE CRUSADE TEAM,AND FULL MUSICAL ACCOMPANYMENT, WITH JIMMY'S UNPARALLELED ARRANGEMENTS, TRULY AN OUTSTANDING TIME OF PRAISE AND WORSHIP,AND A COMFORT TO THE SOUL. (*****)

IT'S LUCKY WE METJANET PASCHAL: BILL GAITHER AND GLORIA: GOD BLESS AMERICAGAITHER GOSPEL SERIES LIVE FROM CARNEGIE HALL
WITH THEIR HOMECOMING FRIENDS-GET USED TO BEING HAPPY! (*****)

"UNBREAK MY HEART"IL DIVO: IL DIVO A NEW GROUP JUST INTRODUCED ON OPRAH AND THE TONIGHT SHOW, PUT TOGETHER BY SIMON C.
FROM AMERICAN IDOL...FOUR YOUNG MEN, ALL FROM DIFFERENT COUNTRIES, DOING HIP SONGS IN AN OPERATIC STYLE! A MUST HAVE FOR THOSE WHO LOVE MUSIC! YUMMY! SONG IN ITALIAN, OR SPANISH, OR ONE OF THOSE ROMANCE LANGUAGES...WHATEVER IT IS, IT WORKS FOR ME! (*****)

MOONLIGHT SONATABEETHOVEN: PIANO SOLOSSERENE, RESTFUL, AND BEAUTIFUL CLASSICAL MUSIC
TRY THIS IN FRONT OF THE FIRE WITH A GOOD BOOK
AND A GLASS OF WINE. REFLECTIVE.
HAS A WAY OF CALMING KIDS DOWN. (*****)

RHAPSODY IN BLUEGEORGE GERSHWIN: FANTASIA II; DISNEY ALSO AVAILABLE JUST UNDER IT'S OWN NAME,
ON CD OR CASSETTE. SYMPHONIC JAZZ.
GEORGOUS! (*****)

WORD LOVES

T.H. WHITE: "THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING"This is THE BOOK, without which no home library of good fiction is complete! The foundation for the complete Aruthurian ledgend, upon which was based "The sword in the Stone", "Camelot",as well as "Merlin!" There is even speculation of it being an allegory of Christ.A book you will read, and re-read for years to come! It is beautiful, romantic,realistic to the times,and even screamingly funny in places! (*****)

Barbra D'amato: Of course you know that chocolate is a vegetable!Anthology of murder mysteries! Funny, clever and so well written. If you love chocolate, you will drool over the title story! (*****)

VIRGINIA WOOLF edited by Susan Dick: THE Complete Shorter Fiction Of Virginia Woolf A book that follows Virginia Woolf's art of lyrical prose developement...encounter continuous delights for the mind! Be stirred by the color and vapours of Kew Gardens,sweet, magical pictures her words will create in your mind! (*****)

WARREN MURPHY & RICHARD SAPIR: THE DESTROYER SERIES FROM #1 TO THE 64TH, (WHICH IS ONLY AS FAR AS I HAVE GOTTEN IN MY COLLECTION) THIS MARTIAL ARTS SERIES HAS GOT IT ALL.REMO WILLIAMS IS A WISE-CRACKING "DEAD" COP, AND HIS MENTOR IS THE FRAGILE LOOKING CHIUN, MASTER OF SINANJU,
TOGETHER THEY COMPRISE THE KILLING ARM OF A BRANCH OF THE US GOVERNMENT THAT DOES NOT EXIST.

NORA LAM AND RICHARD SCHNIEDER: CHINA CRY: THE NORA LAM STORYTHE TRUE STORY OF A WOMAN WHO FOUND THE COURAGE TO LOVE AND THE STRENGTH TO SURVIVE AGAINST ALL ODDS. (*****)

It was like an episode of the "Medium"! I came wide awake, sitting straight up on the edge of my bed,gasping for breath! Scary or frightening don't even begin to cover the panic I felt! And yet, it began quietly enough. Suppose you are married, and living with a man whom has taken a job in a foreign country,and he has taken you with him. He speaks the language, but you do not. But, he provides for you well, and sees to it that most of the business is taken care of by him.So, he does the shopping, pays the rent,and utilities. He makes it his responsibility to make your contact with the world around you totally unnecessary. He is your whole world, with the possible exception of an occasional phone call from a friend or family member clear from your native land. You have no knowledge or interest in the country where you resides politics, economy,or government. Their money only confuses you. The television and radio is all in their own language,so you have no idea what is going on from the news programs,can't understand the dialog in any of the shows, so you just don't watch television, and rarely listen to the radio. But, you have books and tapes from home sent to you,and once the cooking and the cleaning of the home is done, you spend a lot of time reading, or listening to music.From the odd times you have had a chance to go someplace on your own, it is normally only to stop at a local store with a small list of things you want, such as fruit, or bread,eggs and spices, and he gave you the appropriate amount of money needed,and told you exactly where to go. Fearful that you might get lost, you went only there,and came straight back,doubly anxious to hurry home once you saw the way others looked at the way you dressed. It didn't matter that no one spoke to you, since you didn't understand whatever they said to you, and you couldn't respond to their questions...and once you saw the fashions on the street, you were more chagrined than ever to be outside of the home,and began to welcome the isolation of it's closed doors, drawn shades,and your husband's admonitions not to answer the door or the telephone when he wasn't there. Sometimes he didn't come home for a day or two, but even then, you were more fearful of the outside world than you were concerned about what might have become of him. There were no neighbors to chat with, no one to call when you got lonely or needed help with the lights or the plumbing. Whatever the difficulty was, you just endured it until he came home. And then, it happened! One day he didn't come home, and the phone began ringing. The caller ID told you that it was not from your family or friends, so you didn't answer: but unlike other times, whoever it was kept calling back. His late coming home in the evening turned into night, and still the phone rang. By the next morning, not only was the phone ringing, but then came knocking on the door,the tread of many footsteps, and many voices from just outside the door,and angry sounding male voices, shouting your name. Then, all was still, as another evening came,and you sat there in the gathering gloom, wondering if it was safe to turn on a lamp. Still, you waited. He would come home tonight, and everything would be alright. Gripped by fear, you ate a cold supper in the darkened kitchen, staring at his vacant place at the table. Later you went to the living room, guided only by the blue lighted numbers seemingly suspended in mid-air, by the magic of the clock on the VCR. In the dark you crept to your accustomed place,and sat there, frozen with fear that you might make a sound, such as a cough or a sneeze letting those who had been calling and knocking all day long that you were there,just knowing without looking out that they were still there, waiting for just such a signal. Sometime during that long dark night, you slept in your chair, and then waked with a start at an unaccustomed sound,and still sleepy, you automatically reached out,and turned on a light. Instantly the room sprang visible to your eyes,and you gasped, realizing your mistake, and turning back to shut off the light, the rapping on the door and the harsh voices in an unknown tongue came, just as you knew they would,and terror stricken you fled the room,weeping to find sanctuary in your bedroom and slamming the door. For now they knew you were there,and would be coming into the house. But once there, you realized that the closed door of your room would not keep them out. There was no lock on the bedroom door,and so you ran to the bathroom, and locked it, and still you wept, because even a locked door would not keep out those who did not respect you. You listened, crying and trembling, trying to stay silent so you could hear when the door gave way. You strained your ears to catch the tell-tale sounds of the door opening, but when that moment came, there was no stealth about it. The door burst open after being kicked open, and there was shouting and many men and women moved openly, heavily and swiftly they stormed through your home,and the tiny sounds of your weeping ceased, as you were hardly daring to breathe,as your heart thudded in your chest, and great tears rolled down your cheeks. As you hear them coming into the bedroom now, you step back a pace, then two, drawing your hands together at your breast, you then reach up and wipe the tears from your face, and allow yourself a glance in the mirror over your shoulder to confirm that the tears are gone,and only a little moisture remains around your eyes. You smooth your hair back, turn back to the door as you hear them approaching the door now, and lift your chin,and even though you watch in mounting horror and fascination as the doorknob turns, you consciously erase all signs of fear and anxiety from your face as well. Your forehead and jawline unfurrow,and unclench. Your eyes fall at half-mast. An ease you do not feel becomes your expression,and you almost look as though you are about to welcome guests into your home. At the last moment, you glance down and notice your soft lavender gown bares large tear stains,but with slight adjustments, most of them are hidden in it's generous folds. You sigh. They will dry. You shall now represent your husband properly. With dignity. You barely flinch as the door is shoved open. There stands a group of blue uniformed men, with a woman at the forefront. They are all armed with weapons, most of them handguns. two of them have larger weapons. The woman begins to speak to you in a respectful, business-like tone.She holds in her two hands for you to see a document,and then thrusts it into your hands. As she does so, the men with her filter out from behind her,and enter the room, and all but ignore you, and search the room, looking in closets and behind shower curtains.As each one finishes his inspection, they call to the woman, one word. She seems to be asking you a question, to which you can give only one response,a shrug showing empty hands, and a shake of the head,and a steady, deadpan gaze,to indicate you do not understand her. After another few moments of speaking to one another, one by one, each of them drops the muzzle of their weapon towards to floor,the woman speaks to the radio on her shoulder,and at a response, motions to one of the men who steps behind you, gently but firmly brings your hands together behind your back,and places something on your wrists that hold them together there. It is tight, but does not hurt,and it feels like plastic. He takes you gently by the elbow,and begins to guide you towards the door,and everyone seems to be turning to go.They surround you, almost protectively, and it appears that they are not going to beat you, or execute you here and now, and you relax a little.Once you reach the front door,the woman and man pause there,and ask you yet another question, indicating the keyhole.With little difficulty you indicate the rack holding your keyring and bag, and the man gets them for you,and they wait while you lock up the house before being put into a car, and then they all get into cars and leave together. The woman has placed you carefully into the back seat of a white car, taking great care that you not bump your head as you get in, and then she and the man who walked you out are the ones who drive away with you.They take you to a building that is clean and comfortable, and put you into a room with a mirror on the wall, and seat you in a chair at a table. For several minutes they leave you alone,and then the woman comes in, and in a very efficient and impersonal way, touches you all over. Not in a rude way, but just a light touching. Perhaps just to see if you have concealed something in your clothes. You spend the next several hours in that room. They talk, they ask questions, you sit and listen. They offer you water, coffee, tea,and cigarettes.You taste the coffee, but it is weak and terrible. You drink the water. You emphatically shake your head at the cigarettes,and they don't offer them again. You taste the tea, and add sugar and sip it from time to time,only because you are hungry,and need something to keep you awake. Throughout all this time, they mention a name sounding vaguely like your husbands name,and when they leave you alone, you begin to wonder where he is, and why he hasn't come to get you yet. The man and woman who brought you here and have been talking to you begin to look frazzled and disturbed about something,and it occurs to you that they don't understand why you won't talk to them. Therefore, you begin with something simple,and timely. In your own language, you say "I'm hungry"; rub your stomach,and mimic eating. The woman catches on first, leans forward, hand on the table,and says something that means nothing to you, but the way she says it, tells you she is getting the message.She starts talking very fast,and both the man and woman leave the room, and then she comes back with a large book and a file folder.The book turns out to be a book of maps. She opens it, points to a certain map,and points to herself,and then down, and then shoves the book to you,and points at you. While you are finding a map of your native land, the man returns, with a handful of rolls of antacids,Tums, Rolaids,and offers them to you. You look up at him with thanks, but frustration,and shake your head.But then you recall having seen something on the trip downtown that you saw in your home town. But first, the map. You point to your native land,and then to yourself. and then you say"McDonalds?" and repeat the eating action. Within the hour, they bring you food and a translator.After you eat, they open the file folder and begin to tell you a terrible story.They lay out pictures of women and girls whose last contact seems to have been with your husband, and they have now disappeared. They came to your home to find him, and want to know what you know about his work and other activities. Through your translator, you explain to them about your isolation, and lack of language skills. Even though this story has been played out over radio and television, he knew that you would be completely unaware of what was going on,and by yourself would never put two and two together,and with his warnings not to answer the phone, or the door, he thought he kept any tracing of his whereabouts leading to a blind end. He arranged for your ignorance of the country and it's language to keep his secret...whether it was that he was a white slave trader, or a hit man, either occupation would suit his proclivity for blood lust, and whatever warped, twisted situations he could take advantage of on the side.

But now you want to know what it was that caused me to to awake in such a fearful state! So,I'm going to tell you now. I was not an American citizen, but it took place in America,and the agency seeking him was not the police, but the immigration service! Even though they had hard evidence and reason to believe that he had caused these women and girls to be missing, and possibly been responsible for two deaths,and one murder and rape, they only wanted to deport him, and me, back to our native country, leaving me with him, where I would continue to be stuck with him, in the isolation of his creation! But now, with him believing that I had turned on him,and as his wife, in our home country, there would be nothing I could do to protect myself from him.

It has long puzzled me as to why a woman of any sort would stay married to a sexual predator, but now,through this nightmare, I belive that God has given me the answer to this question. The answer is isolation, and fear.

I woke up from a dream where I danced in a wooden room painted all pink and blue, with Annette Funicello,no, not now, but back when she was about 16 years old,and I was about the same age, I guess, from the way I was moving. She was older than I when I watched her on television, but I always thought she was the prettiest and the best to come out of the Micky Mouse Club. Now, of course it's Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera...but I digress.

Anyway, I awoke with this whole rouges gallery of identities. From the Hunch-Back of Notre Dame feeling face full of sinus infection, to a collapsed eustation tube,(and yes, I have had it happen to me before,and it is very painful, and scary, but with treatment,it goes away...) and yet I was still able to compete in the "you're the one that I want" sing-off, as a very convincing Sandy, and I don't know who the guy was I sang with, but he was a "Danny" who looked just like John Travolta!

I guess I'll have to watch my intake of weird concoctions, along with Turkey left-overs to keep this sort of thing from happening again.

Dreams like this can be very unsettling, especially when you can't remember all of them....but just enough to make you wonder what else you did!

Throughout my life there have been two particular kitchen appliances with which I have had a strong, almost emotional fondness for, and no, I am not talking about either the refrigerator, (or the ice-box,as some people still stubbornly call it) or that stupid hot sandwich maker,which I think got used about twenty times,and then was retired to the back of a lower cupboard, and shall languish there until we finally pitch it,or give it away in a yard sale.The appliances to which I shall always have a fond attachment to, are the old fashioned ice cream maker, and my GE electric frying pan.

I can still remember the excitement of everyone gathering around the kitchen, or outdoors at the picnic table, assembling the ice and the salt for the outside of the cream basket, and then the cream and vanilla and sugar and other flavoring for the actual ice cream itself. We usually used strawberries,half-mashed, for the other flavor. Then, once it was all assembled,the cranking would begin. I was very little, so I don't recall if there was any cooking going on of the slurry( the ice cream mixture) but I do remember that all the men, my father included,sitting around, sweating, red-faced and red-necked, turning that crank, which in turn turned the container,and the longer they cranked it, the more the ice cream would freeze. Now, some of the more adventurous women, such as my mother and my grandmother would start the cranking, but it always got to a point that the only ones who could turn that crank were the most muscular, and strongest of us all, and that is when the men would take over. Inevitably, the ice cream making would come down to a laughing, joking, hard working contest between the last men standing, when everyone else was begging off, with sore muscles and aching backs,but somehow, it was always my Dad, and Dick Jones, best friends, who would try to see who could last the longest, but the contest would be called, when the women noticed there was more salty ice water than ice on the outside of that wooden churn,and they would open the top of that container, and there was the most beautiful pink strawberry ice cream, just waiting to be scooped out. And Oh! The smell of that confection, the sweet strawberries and cream aroma that wafted out at us was enough to make anyone's mouth water! Lest you think this was just a quick turn or two of the handle, I shall disabuse you of that notion right now. The cranking went on for hours, while we roasted wienies, and ate them with baked beans and drank lemonade and iced tea to keep away the hunger pangs and relieve the dryness in our mouths, waiting for that ice cold dessert being slowly, painfully created before our very eyes. All of us kids would put on our swim suits,and run though the sprinkler,and end up playing tag, and they would still be cranking. We'd break out the potato salad, and ham salad sandwiches, and they would still be cranking....we'd hack up the icy cold watermelon,and devour it, leaving nothing but a puddle of pink juice,and rind and a smattering of seeds, and they would still be cranking! But finally,about the time they were starting to call us to the bonfire to toast marshmallows, we would have a choice,because they would also be calling, "U scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream!" And, as far as I was concerned, there was no contest. After waiting for it all day, nothing tasted better than homemade ice cream! And it is still the best today, even though the new machines are practically effortless, homemade is still hands down, the very best.

The other appliance, as I said, was my GE electric frying pan. After working all day,it was a total joy to come home,and throw something into the frying pan. It was so versatile, I could start out with a pound of ground beef, brown it, throw in a hamburger helper,and some veggies, put the lid on it, go bathe, change clothes, add water to the fry pan, stir it up, run my son's bath, and set out his jammies,and by the time he came out all fresh and clean, dinner would be ready, and with little physical work! Of course, it didn't have to be ground beef, sometimes I would start with a can of pork and beans, and throw in some hot dogs, or chili,and hot dogs,add a salad, poof, dinner! Then with the evening meal over with, I would pull the element out of it, save whatever leftovers there were, and set it down in the sink to soak(without immersion ) while we read bedtime stories, and once Yon son was tucked in, swish with a brush,and rinse, and set it on the countertop for the next day, and it's off to bed we would go! I so loved that frying pan! It took no time to heat up, and didn't turn the kitchen into an inferno in hot weather, and there was almost nothing we couldn't cook in it. It was called a frypan, but it didn't just fry. It roasted, it poached,it simmered, it stewed,it boiled, it BAKED! I could not only fry a chicken, I could make barbecued chicken,boiled chicken, or shake and bake. And, you could mix up a cake, butter the bottom and sides, pour the batter in, set the controls, put the high domed lid on the pan, and walk away...and later on, you would have a cake! That pan was such a treasure, it would do almost anything but set the table,and pour the milk. I sure wish I had another one. It was an instrument that gave me more time to be with my little boy, than if I had to cook each dish for a meal in a different pan. The only thing wrong with it? That I only had one!

Oh,by the way..you say you still call your refrigerator an icebox? Good...What day does your ice man come?

It was a peculiar experience waking up this morning. I've changed my normal routine, since I have been under the weather, I go to bed as soon after my nighttime meds as possible,and wake up about four thirty, or five. That's odd enough in itself, because I am usually a night-owl, but now, I wake up, visit Mrs. Murphy, write down ideas and go back to bed. But today, as I said, I woke up with music in my head. Now, usually, it's " I got up with heaven on my mind" or another Gospel song, but this morning, it was " Oh Johnny!" Now, this is not one of my favorite songs, and I haven't heard it for years! I don't even know anyone named John, or Johnny,so there is absolutely no reason whatever that I should be thinking about this song. None. I have been puzzling over this all morning,and scratching my head as to why this idiotic love song should be rattling around in my brain. I'm not even certain that I even remember the words. Let's see. It has sort of a bouncy tune, and it goes,

Oh Johnny, oh Johnny heavens above-

Oh Johnny, Oh Johnny, my perfect love-

You make my heart Jump!... for joy-and when you're near me,

I just...can't sit still a minute I just,

Oh Johnny, Oh Johnny I just don't see- how I could love you more!

Your not handsome it's true, but when I look at you-

I just, Oh Johnny, Oh johnny OH!

Uh-huh. How'd you like to wake up to that? Well, I didn't like it. I don't like the song, and don't know who wrote it, or sang it, and I don't want to know. I only passed it along to you, in hopes that this will get it out of my head,and leave me alone! I just hope for your sakes that the durn thing isn't contagious!

You are a creature of dreams. You can't help it. You do it in your sleep, so you can't prevent it, nor can you control what you do in your sleep. But the dreams you have when you're awake are another matter. Kipling said, " If you can dream, but not let dreams become our masters..." He was expounding wisely.And, you wanted to know, why? Simply put, I ask you to think. When you were very young, you had dreams that you wanted and expected to come true, but as you grew, they changed, you changed.Dreams cannot be our masters, it must always be the other way around, because of that change, which should be obvious, but there is more to it than that. I can recall wanting to be a horse, or a butterfly, but then I got realistic,and decided I wanted to be a horse Doctor. A vet. I kept that dream for a very long time, but was unable to pursue my dream, because my father died while I was still in high school,and there was no way I could pay for years upon years of collage. And, that is why we cannot let our dreams become our masters. Every day, someones dream dies on the vine,and we have to be able to bounce back from a dream that is broken,and reach for new dreams. Dreams can make you keep going when nothing else will, but everywhere you look, in all walks of life, there have been disappointments, and that is when you have to not let the dream become your master. I know you have heard the stories of different individuals who, against all odds, went ahead and persevered, through hardships and long years of work, to finally realize their dream of becoming a star, or a singer, or a world champion tennis player or another entrepreneur,and with the fulfillment of that dream they became rich and famous,and all because they wouldn't give up! That is what they say, but the facts don't quite bare that out. They didn't pursue that dream to the exclusion of all else. Somehow, they had other jobs, and endeavors in between to keep them going,or else they would have been on the streets, dying of hunger, all the while they were singing for nickles and dimes. And for every one who finally makes it, there are thousands who did not.They might be equal in talent and drive, but sometimes it's as simple as one person got the break that all those others missed. Right place, right time, kind of thing. And, there is also this mindset that it doesn't matter if you have to sacrifice to follow your dream,that no matter what it is, you will do it all, give it all, just to attain that pinnacle of success. Men, and women have been known to do just that. They allow the dream to become the central focus of their life, and lose husband or wife, children, home, other family, and all that they possess in the hope that this time, it's going to work. To be sure, there is a certain respect and honor to the memory of those who drove themselves all their lives, only to die unknown and in abject poverty,alone, staying true to that call,unyielding and unbending,and yet, their mark in this world is unmade, so why didn't they do something else too? Because the dream became their master. The painter forgot that for every Vincent Van Gogh, there were dozens of Vincent wannabees.But not when he was alive. No.In fact, Vincent is an excellent example of what I am talking about. He had several jobs before the paint-bug bit him,but once he got into it, the dream took over,and although he did wonderful works such as "Starry starry night" Vincent only sold one painting in his life. (1)! He committed suicide before he achieved the acclaim that he so richly deserved. I think it would be fair to say, that Vincent got so caught up in his dream, that he grew despondent over the lack of response he was getting, and just, gave up. The dream, his Master killed him.

For every Tolstoy there were dozens of who wrote in cold walk-up flats, whose fingers bled from writing all winter long, and never sold a thing. Millions of talented, dedicated, intelligent, hard-working artists have lived and died, and no one ever heard their names, nor gave them the respect they deserved,but they continued on, for the love of their calling, and not because they were being controlled by that desire to be the rich,famous and celebrated so and so. And that, in essence, is the definition of one who dreams, but does not make the dream their master. Do what you dream, but only because you love doing it, not to become someone else by the doing ! Then you will be happy,and your work will show it,and that will help you to make your mark!

Writers are considered strange and odd by many "normal" people.When we are just thinking, we are thought to be moody,too quiet,and get asked repeatedly if there is something wrong.(Which of course, is no end of being helpful when trying to think!) And when we are excited over a project, and extremely talkative, it is so sweetly suggested that perhaps we should take a tranquilizer.When I am heavily into a work, loved ones tusk, tusk, and shake their heads and worry that I should slow down, and when I am relaxing...resting from my labors after tearing through twenty pages non-stop, those same tusk,tusking head shakers furrow their brows and sympathetically ask if I am "blocked!" Well, I for one, wish to heaven that those "normal" people would just get over it, and realize that I don't own my artistic nature, Au contraire, it has me.When I consider it at length, the whole thing comes back to a line I ran across in one of my favorite books when I was an early teen, from "The Prodigal Women"...the author's name escapes me for the moment,(Oh wait! It was Nancy Hale!) but in it, the lead heroine,Leda March, who considers herself awkward and unattractive, is trying to decide between following her love of literature, or a more "romantic" bent, and one of her instructors tells her, "...It's a fine life, the life of the mind." And compares books to lovers, who will, leave you, lie to you, and betray you, and not care if they hurt you, but books never will. (to paraphrase here) But read a book, and put it down and come back ten years later, and it will say the same thing it said before.Shortly thereafter, I began to write.And that quote has always stood out in my memory as being a defining moment for me,because it is true. I have never felt like Leda....well, not for very long, anyway, but she, unlike myself, totally turned her back on her writing career, and went seeking after love and the "great romance" that have been the undoing for so many.I have loved, and been loved many times throughout my life, but I can honestly say, it has not been the focal point of my life.Courting the muse, as they say, has been. Certainly it has it's ups and downs. You can go along for days or even weeks and never hit a break in the flow of ideas and inspirations, and then all at once, you might hit a snag, where something doesn't quite fit, and you might mumble around for a while, but then, all of a sudden, in the middle of dinner, it jells for you, and you drop your fork, and run into the other room,declaring, excuse me! But I have a scathingly brilliant idea! And Oh! The thrill of that moment, and of that time after when you are like a madwoman,fingers flying as fast as they can to keep up with your thoughts,as point after point of your creation comes together before your very eyes! There is nothing that can take the place of the soaring emotions of writing something that makes you laugh out loud, or cry hot tears,and that wrings that emotion from all who read it! That feeling is better than food, better than sex,and second only to breathing sweet air on a higher plateau than you have ever attained before in your life! Frankly, if your stirring scenes don't bring you to that sort of exaltation, then you may as well, throw it in the fire and start again, because if it doesn't move you, it isn't going to move anyone else!

My dream tonight was very strange.It took place where we used to live almost twenty years ago.I was driving the car I had then, and going right down the street where we used to live.For some reason, the car stopped running,and I walked down to the bar at the end of the block, which I never did when we lived there.I went in, and sat at a booth, with a cup of coffee, knowing that this was all wrong,and wondering what I was doing here, when all at once, I heard a very familiar voice...it was MOM! Someone who sounded just like my mother was sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender about her husband, and I raised up, and saw the back of a small woman, with bright red hair,done up beautifully,just as my mother did her hair,and when she spoke, she gestured in the air, with those lovely artistic, expressive hands that I knew so well.I looked harder, scarcely daring to believe my eyes, and sure enough, those were the well-manicured nails she filed into perfect ovals,with glistening polish without a chip or a smudge,and I saw again the skin of those tender hands,every wrinkle and freckle just as I remembered them, when she would sooth my fevered brow when I had scarlet fever,or tonsillitis, or any of a dozen other illnesses she nursed me through.This woman even held her cigarette the same way my mother did,and used it to punctuate the air during her conversation. "Mother?" I said it without thinking,questioningly, but I knew it had to be her.But it couldn't be her.She passed away over ten years ago! I held my breath then, for the woman was turning towards me, And there was that dear oval face, with the ivory complexion, those high-arched auburn brows, those shining clear blue-green eyes,that classic noble nose, and that curvy mouth which as soon as she saw me broke into a wide white smile! She called me by name,and then sighed,and held out her arms to me, "my little pigeon!" she called, it's so good to see you here! I ran to her, and hugged her and held her by her little shoulders,and kissed her, and laughed and cried, and did what I always did upon meeting her after a long separation. I put my lips close to her ear as I held her close and softly said, " My little mommy." Then as we broke from our embrace, things shifted,and I was no longer taller than she,and I wasn't up walking or running any more, I was back in my wheelchair.She leaned over and looked at me,and smoothed my hair back behind my ears the way she used to, and looked very serious.Oh, honey, she said, what has happened to you? I tried to tell her that this is the progression of my disease, and tried to remind her that I told her about it back in '93 just before Al died, and she snorted. "Oh, but he's not dead, but I'm going to make him wish he were!" She said," Wait till I tell you what that dirty dog did to me!"She said, I was just telling...(whatever the bartenders name was, I can't recall) all about it,and she is going to help me.Then the scene shifted again,and we were in this woman's kitchen, and it was a wondrous large place, with all the earmarks of a chef's kitchen.It was a huge island kitchen, with all the gleaming metal counter space you can imagine,and pans hanging overhead,and banks of dozens of stove burners,and all of them seemed to be occupied with skillets of frying fish,and saucepans.we were all chopping onions and other vegetables and slicing lemons and limes,and fish stock and spices were being combined in the saucepans, with the onions being thrown into a pan to be caramelized with big chunks of butter and this strange woman/bartender was explaining that it is traditional for women to use poison to punish wayward husbands.I remember looking into those pans,and seeing two browned whole fish sizzling in butter in each one,and the sauce being assembled, and then I heard;

"Mom? Honey. It's time to get up and take your nighttime meds. Here, give me your hand,and I'll help you out of bed."I raised up and wiped the tears from my cheeks and eyes,and gave him my hand. As he pulled me from the bed, and I got my feet under me, I remember thinking, how odd that dream had been, and how each of them, my father, and both step-fathers had passed away, under a doctor's care, without any question as to the cause.Dad died at home, of uremic poisoning, because his kidneys had shut down,and he had requested going home, because he didn't want to die in a hospital. He wanted to be home, in his own bed, sitting up for a while every day in his own chair, looking out the picture window at the woods across the street,having home cooked meals,and listening to mother playing the piano for him.It was all very quiet and serene,and the doc came every day to give him pain shots,and right up to the last day, he was lucid and comfortable, unencumbered by wires and hoses and things.

Tony died of cancer, in the hospital, and Al died of pneumonia, in the hospital,and in Al's case, mother wasn't even at the hospital.

It was after all, just a silly dream...Oh,but say, it was wonderful seeing mom again!

It can be quite nice, actually.You meet beautifully aware people in smooth jazz/juice bars, who aren't blowing sour beer breath in your face,or otherwise reeking of alcohol.They don't get increasingly rowdy or belligerent,or start slurring their words,or falling around drunkenly.These are nice places, with atmosphere. Understated lighting,soft music,with pit groups and tables,beautiful art on the walls,without the clink of pool balls.One or two here or there might smoke, but for the most part, the air is clear,and moving softly,like a tropical breeze,sweetly scented.

His name was David.I met him tonight in just such a place.The music was background, not cranked up so that in order to have a conversation,you had to yell in someones ear.We talked about literature, philosophy,art and classical music.Then suddenly, it happened.The lighting altered, and the music came up just enough to alert us to a change,and conversation stilled. It started out with one clear clarinet,low at first,and then rising in pitch and volume, and everyone responded most appreciatively, because we all knew, it was RHAPSODY IN BLUE!" I nearly swooned. With chill bumps all up and down my arms, I couldn't help but close my eyes,and lean my head back, as the whole orchestra came in, and those two beautiful grand pianos had their say.Lord, what a moment! George Gershwin's most fabulous creation has always effected me that way. His genius blending of Jazz,blues,and classical music, I do believe will always be one of my most favorite pieces of music.It has no words, for there are no words necessary with this sound. It speaks to the heart.David obviously felt the same, for he said nothing throughout. In fact, no one spoke. It would have ruined the mood.It is hard to explain how a roomful of people can be so quiet, hanging on every sound issuing forth, stunned by it's emotional poetry/it's wordless perfection,hardly daring to breathe, much less talk, fearing they will miss a note,or a change in tempo, for Rhapsody takes us through many,and when it comes to the crescendo,a general soft sigh of regret goes up, that it is over,and then a burst of applause...a standing O! A sign of wordless appreciation, which is the only sort that is appropriate for Rhapsody In Blue.I opened my eyes, and applauded right along with everyone else, but I was looking into Davids eyes,and his mirrored my own.Glistening with tears, some stuck to his lashes,some trembling along the rim and at the corners,some overflowing onto his cheeks. I didn't know if he had closed his eyes at the time, but I knew he was just as caught up in the experience as I was,and that endeared him to me in a way that no amount of pretentious words could. Sharing something you love, with someone you've just met is the surest way I know to find out volumes about that person.And this was so uncontrived, so unexpected, that it was beyond mystical. It was a connection, spontaneously made, on a level so deep, and profound, it nearly defies explanation.It goes deeper than heart to heart, it goes almost soul to soul. In that moment, we might have just been caught up in the magic of the music, but when we spoke, all thoughts of that flew away.We had conversation that was unending,and unlimited.Everywhere our fancy took us, the other was there also. We weren't just waiting for the other one to stop speaking so we could talk. We were listening,and responding.We spoke of love,and heartbreak, pain and joy, Beauty was in our thoughts and on our lips, and there was no end to the shift of emotions, from laughter to tears,and to our mutual delight, there was no mention of the baser sort of banal conversation. No cursing or cussing, no mention of ugliness or war or politics. And even though I looked at him for hours, I couldn't tell you if he had a clear complexion, or if his hair was straight or curly, or even if he was fat or thin.It didn't matter.I watched his face for the play of emotion across it as he spoke,his hair framed his face, that's all.I know he was clean,for his skin gleamed,and his personal scent was clean and sweet. We talked until my stomach rumbled,and he heard it.We looked around, and were taken aback by the fact that so few others remained.When had they gone? We didn't know.We had one more drink.Mine was ice water. His, iced tea. I will always recall how sweet that water tasted, tonight.Although filled with personality, how self-less and without guile or manipulation, our talk.At the end, I drove him home.It was shocking to realize that we lived on the same acre of land.His house was the big one, and mine,the smaller one, at the end of the road.We laughed about it, when we became aware that his father was my landlord...as well as his.

Then, I went home, alone, without even a kiss,and that too, was sweet.I came in to my quiet home, greeted by solitude,and silence,my thoughts filled with his words,and the music we had shared, and then my attention was taken away from the deep joys I was re-living, by an annoying sound. The furnace was going nuts.It was blowing hard, for no reason. I reset it, and suddenly, I was being blasted by cold air. I thumped on it, but my pounding it solved nothing.

That's when I woke up, realizing that my fan was set on high, and I was shivering.

Yes, it was a dream. An absolutely beautiful,lovely, gorgeous dream,in which everything was real, but David.Yet, perhaps, there is a David, somewhere, out there, and I just haven't met him yet...

Don't believe it? Well.Maybe not. Perhaps it was just part of my dream.Have I mentioned my dreams to you before? In my dreams, I can fly...and I have wings. That's not so terribly strange. A great many people dream the same dream, but they don't tell anybody about them.I write them out,just as soon as I can stumble out of bed and into the dinning room, so that I can remember as much of my night's activities as possible. Before the dream turns into little wisps and floats away...In this nights dream, I heard my name called, and was accompanied on stage with Yon son to receive an award for the screen adaptation of a compilation of my dreams.Okay, it's a little more complicated than that. I got an Oscar.Huh! Like that's going to happen.But Hey! It could happen! They say you have to believe it to see it. Well, last night, I saw it. I came out in full regalia,crystal tiara on my head, hair just so, in a beautiful flowing gown, and saw clips of the movie I wrote.

I can still remember the night the inspiration for my books came to me. Just BOOM! There is was, total and complete, and for the last twenty years I have been trying to get it all down on paper.

And all that time, I have had people asking me, well,can you tell me what it's about? If I could just tell you what it's about, I wouldn't need to write a book about it! It's like another life! It's complicated. I guess you could consider it to be a whole new genre. It's mystery/fantasy/spiritual/ sci-fi/slice of life!

Strictly speaking, this isn't about dreams, but yet, it is.It is not about the dreams you have while sleeping...it is about those dreams of what life held for you when you were young, lazing around with your brother and sister, or your best friends. Looking forward into the future then was so easy...and looking back on it now, the things you said, and the things you thought seem so childish and silly,but some, now, were so prophetic and profound.I came up with all sorts of things that were flights of fancy...inventive, but hardly feasible.It didn't matter. My brothers idea's were even more so, and we laughed over how far out our imaginations would take us. But my sister brought us back down to earth with a dream for her future that left us with wide eyed, flat footed wild surmise,and dropping jaws.Jimmy and I were speechless.Here she was, a beautiful talented young woman, with a brilliant career before her as a dancing instructor, full of energy, sparkling personality, with boyfriends surrounding her on every hand, and what does she say? " I can't wait until I am old, with lots of beautiful memories to look back on."

Our reaction. HUH? Jimmy didn't even want to think about being OLD. I myself wanted to enjoy life while I was living it, not wait to enjoy memories when I was old.But, when you are young, the notion of being old just does not compute.

But, as it turned out, My sister was the one who has all the adventures and is still going strong, running hither and yon today.

Jimmy didn't even get a chance to get old. He was shot down in Vietnam at 25. I am the one who has a lot of wonderful memories to look back on, all unbidden, they come to me,and comfort me, more and more all the time. Isn't it funny, how these things work out?